BACK FROM HIS TIME AWAY, MY HUSBAND DIDN’T COME HOME ALONE: IN HIS ARMS, HE WAS CARRYING A LITTLE BOY… Helen had just pulled a tray of fish pie from the oven, filling the kitchen with the aroma her husband Victor adored. Borscht was simmering on the hob, the compote just needed finishing off. Everything was perfect for Victor’s return after three months working away up North. Helen’s heart raced with anticipation as the bus pulled up—but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of Victor, suitcase in one hand and a small, wide-eyed boy in the other. It wasn’t the reunion Helen had dreamed of. Instead of rushing into Victor’s embrace, Helen froze at the doorway, her eyes darting between her husband and the unfamiliar child clinging to his leg. Who was this boy? Why had Victor brought him home? Before she could ask, a torrent of confessions, heartbreak, and impossible choices tumbled out—revealing betrayal, loss, and a son Helen never knew existed. As Helen struggled to forgive and to find her place as a stepmother to a grieving, timid child, she faced the toughest test yet: learning to open her heart and body her own family. But just when peace began to settle, an unexpected twist threatened to tear her world apart once more—forcing Helen to fight for the only family she had left, and to discover a strength she never knew she possessed. A gripping, moving tale of love, forgiveness, betrayal, and the true meaning of motherhood—set in the heart of the English countryside.

Author Emily TaylorReading 10 minViews 2

March 14th

Today was the day Id been waiting formy return home after another long rotation up north. I could picture Charlotte, my wife, bustling about in our old country house, putting the finishing touches on my welcome-home meal, just the way shes always done. There’d be fish pie warm from the oven and a hearty beef stew simmering on the hob. And of course, homemade applesauce for afters, though I suppose shed finish that once I stepped through the door.

Charlotte and I have lived in this house for yearssince we decided, at the start of our marriage, to trade in my city flat for a place with a bit of land and more room to breathe. We sold my flat in Manchester, used the money for our home, and I tried and failed at running my own shop in town. Ever since, Ive taken up work on long rotationsa few months up at a project in the Scottish Highlands, a few months back home. The moneys decent, but it weighs on us both. Charlottes only twenty-eight, and these long spells apart leave her with everything on her shouldersleaky roof, bills, the lot.

We never had children. I thought it was best to wait until my work settled, and Charlotte agreed, or at least pretended to. Once we have steady work, once were both ready, I kept saying. But steady work never turned up, and there was always another leak or creak about the house needing fixing, swallowing up every pound I brought home.

Today, though, all that was set aside. I was coming home, and Charlotte was waiting near the window that overlooked the village bus stop, just as she always did.

The bus rumbled up at last. I stepped off, dragging my oversized holdall, but this time I wasnt alone. I cradled a small boyJack, just two years old. His hair, straw-blonde, stuck out in tufts, and he clung to me tightly, his big grey eyes darting forth as he pressed his thumb into his mouth.

I could see Charlotte in the window, her face open with expectation, then flickering with confusion as she noticed the boy pressed against me. I could only imagine what was going through her mind. Whose child? Was I bringing home someone elses son? What would she think of this boy clinging to my hand?

Inside, I set Jack down gently and lowered my bag. He instantly wrapped himself around my leg, sheepish and silent. Charlotte stood in the hallway, frozen.

Well, Charlotte, dont I get a hug after all these weeks apart? I managed, holding out my arms. But there was no warmth or humour in my words, just a quiet weariness.

She hugged me, but her eyes never left the child. Who is this boy, Tom? Whats going on?

I tried to steady myself, took Jacks hand, and led him to the spare room, handing him a model aeroplane Id always treasured. Giving it up was my way of showing just how serious this was.

Sit here, Jack. I need to talk to Aunt Charlotte.

Back in the kitchen, Charlotte was tense and silent. I spooned some stew into a bowl and tried to eat, but it tasted of dust.

That boy, I said finally, hes my son.

Charlotte made a sound like a choked sob, but stared hard at me, waiting for more.

It happened up north. Mary, the cookwe, well, it was only a couple of times. She fell pregnant, never told me. None of us knew until recently. Hes mine, Charlotte. You can see it. Hes the spitting image.

She gripped the edge of the table. You always said it was too soon for childrenfor us. But you managed it with someone else?

I could only shake my head, fumbling for words. I didnt want this, Charlotte. It just happened. She diedanimal attack. They told me I was his father, and there was nowhere else for him to go. I had to bring him home.

What happens now? she whispered, lips barely moving.

If you cant forgive me, well both leave, I said, but I need you to know I love you, I always have. It was a mistake, just the once. If you can find room to forgive me, Ill spend the rest of my days proving my love, to you and to Jack.

Charlotte stared at her hands for a long time, eyes clouded with pain. She wasnt sure about the boyand I understood why. He was a living reminder of my betrayal. But she didnt ask us to leave; instead, she walked out into the dark, leaving me with my son and my regrets.

She was gone for hours, wandering the lanes until well past midnight. When she finally returned, I was fast asleep. Jack lay curled up on the old armchairnot really asleep, but pretending. He was a quiet boy, barely made a sound; anyone could see hed been through too much already. Charlotte bent down, looking at him through the gloom, trying to muster some forgiveness, some warmth, but it didnt come.

The days dragged on. Charlotte tried not to let her resentment show, not to direct it at the child, but Jack could sense it all the same. He rarely left my side, and I, for my part, did what I could: feeding, bathing, buying him a toy or two. But the care I gave him was rote, rather than lovingneither of us sure what to do with each other.

Charlotte barely spoke, carrying herself like a shadow through the house. She thawed a little as the weeks passed, especially when I mended the roof and put my hand to the endless list of broken things. But Jack was still a stranger, something she tolerated only for my sake.

Two months crept past. I was preparing to leave for work again. It was time to sort out what would happen to the boy. Cant take him up north, I said, it wouldnt be safe. Hell stay here. Hes got a place at the nursery school in the village. Youll only need to drop him off and collect him. He wont cause you any troubleJacks a self-sufficient lad.

Jack overheard us, of course, peering round the door with wide eyes. But what could a two-year-old really grasp?

After I left, things got quieter still. Jack dressed himself for nursery, accepted whatever Charlotte handed him, and slipped up to his room after tea without complaint. One day, when she collected him, he barely touched his dinner and wandered upstairs early. Charlotte noticed his face was bright reda shock against his normally pale skin. She checked his forehead and recoiled at the heat.

For the first time, she panickednot because Jack was my son, but because he was an ill child under her roof. She called for an ambulance when his temperature hit 40°C, and while they waited, she was all nerves and half-spoken apologies.

In hospital, Charlotte must have surprised herself most of all. She told the staff, Hes my husbands son. Im in the process of adopting him. Ill be his mother soon. Shed meant it as a lie, but as she said the words, she realised she meant them. Something cracked; her heart melted as she held Jacks hot little hands clinging to her neck.

After two worry-soaked weeks, Jack finally smiled for the first time, his fever broken. By the time I returned home, Charlotte had officially adopted him. He called her Mum without prompting, and she cried all night, but it was doneJack was hers, not just on paper but in her heart.

Time flew by. In a year and a half, Jack was a totally different child: lively, chattering away, never far from Charlottes side. He clung to her as if hed never known anybody else. I was only too happy, letting Charlotte be the centre of his world.

Then, tragedy struck. My coach up north veered off a windy road in the Lake District, tumbling into a snow-clogged valley. The papers covered itclerks missing, bodies lost. For months, everyone, including Charlotte, believed I was one of them.

The grief nearly destroyed her. She was swallowed by it for months, until, eventually, it was only Jackher Jackwho pulled her through. When I was finally declared lost, then dead, Charlotte had begun, finally, to find acceptance.

Then, against all odds, I turned up at the door two years later, on a rainy afternoon in April. Charlotte, coming back with Jack from a muddy walk, dropped the shopping when she saw me at the kitchen table, tucking into her mornings bake like nothing had happened.

Dont be frightened, Char, Im alive, I grinned, but she was white as a sheet.

Where have you been? she managed, dropping onto a stool.

With someone else, I admitted, a woman who called me to the coast just before the crash. We stayed together, started a businessshe was well-off, wanted to settle down. I thought it was fate, that it was my chance at a new life.

Charlotte rocked silently, fists clenched. And why have you come back now?

I just came for a divorce. My partnershe cant have kids, you see. Shes hoping we could raise Jack together.

At that, Charlottes voicealways so quietcame roaring back.

Never! she shouted, grabbing the nearest fork and brandishing it at me. You dont get to stroll back in and take my boy. Hes my son. I’m not giving him up just because you or some rich woman decided you want a ready-made family. Im his mother in every way now. He stays.

What are you talking about? I spluttered. Jacks not even your real

But Jack had heard us. He dashed in, buried himself in Charlottes arms, sobbing, Mum, please dont let him take me.

Not on your life, Jack, Charlotte promised, pressing him fiercely to her chest. Youre my son, always.

I left with nothing but the taste of cold pie. Charlotte refused me her forgiveness, her son, or even her hate. All she had left for me was resolve.

I suppose I thought I could walk back into their lives, rewrite what had happened, make demands. I was wrong.

What this whole sorry chain of events taught me is that family isnt made by blood but by love and the choices we makeespecially when things get hard. I lost everything I ever truly cared about, but Jack gained the steadfast love of a mother who chose him, in the end, above all else.

And mewell, I learned too late that real devotion sometimes isnt something youre born into. Sometimes, its madenurturedand nothing can undo it, not even regret.

The Choice “Turns out Fred really is well and truly married…” sighed Sue, sitting on a park bench and clutching the hospital referral note deep in her pocket. Her flatmates back at the halls envied her when they saw her with her tall, clean-shaven, blue-eyed, dark-haired companion, thinking she’d lucked out with such a charming gent. But there was nothing to envy, really. Sue shuddered, remembering her first and last meeting with Fred’s wife, who had caught her at the factory gates to spell out how things stood. “Well, hello there! You must be Susan?” she began. “And you are?” Sue tensed under the piercing gaze of the tall, slender woman with ash-blonde hair. “I’m Olivia—Fred Mason’s wife.” “What?” “You heard me!” “Yet another naïve girl,” the woman said calmly. “How many of you are out there—never ending, chasing after someone else’s happiness.” “How dare you?” “Listen,” Olivia gingerly took her rival by the elbow, “how dare you? I’m the legal wife. I saw you with my husband, and you’re still acting up, instead of apologising and feeling some proper shame—although, I suppose that’s something only decent people do, which doesn’t seem to be you. “There have been so many like you, I couldn’t count them all on my fingers and toes. “You’ve tangled with a married man—shameless! He’s a man, a hunter, you know? But to him, you’re just a fleeting adventure. He’ll tire of you before you know it. Best keep your distance. “By the way, we have two daughters—I could show you a family photo.” Olivia pulled out a photograph and handed it to a stunned Sue. “There. Proof of real, honest love. Us in Blackpool, just two months ago… “So? Why are you silent?” “What do you want from me? Sort out your husband yourself.” “Oh, I will—don’t worry! He only started at the factory recently, it pays well, and now, you’ve turned up to make things worse. “Let it go, for your own good. Don’t fall for Fred’s promises—he’s got no intention of getting a divorce. Don’t waste your time. How old are you, thirty?” “Twenty-five!” Sue retorted indignantly. “Well, then. You’ve got time to find someone else and start a family. Leave Fred be.” Sue listened no longer—she stumbled away from Olivia, whose sudden arrival had shattered her happy world and erased her hopeful dreams in a heartbeat. “Traitor…” Sue muttered, a lump in her throat, determined not to let her emotions spill out in public. She didn’t want workplace gossip. That evening, Fred turned up as if nothing had happened, flowers in hand. Crying and red-eyed, Sue threw him out, despite his eternal promises and claims he and his wife hadn’t loved each other for years. For two weeks, Sue recovered in silence. Fred left her alone, behaving at work as though she didn’t exist. But as they say, trouble never comes alone. When Sue started feeling sick in the mornings, she told herself it was stress. Soon, though, she realised her naive, passionate romance with Fred had left consequences. “Six weeks,” the doctor said—a sentence rather than a diagnosis. Sue didn’t want to be a single mum. She was frightened. She felt like everyone was judging her, all because she had trusted a man who turned out to be a stranger. Fred had hidden his marriage. What was she supposed to do, ask for his passport when they first met? He’d worn no wedding ring, though not all married men do. Why didn’t she question it when he said to keep their relationship secret at work? He had tricked her—and knowing she’d been deceived offered no comfort. The office now buzzed with gossip about “the wife’s visit”. “I’m pregnant,” Sue managed to tell her former lover one lunchtime, desperate. “I’ll give you the money—just sort it,” he muttered, and the next day Fred quit and vanished for good. Sue knew she couldn’t delay. Despite every warning from her doctor, she took the hospital referral for “the procedure”. And so, she sat on a bench, clutching that note as if it might vanish. “In a hurry?” asked a young man in a business suit, plopping himself down next to Sue, an enormous bunch of crimson chrysanthemums in his arms. “Sorry?” she replied, her eyes hollow. “Your watch is a bit fast,” he pointed––indicating her gold wristwatch. “My watches are always ten minutes ahead… I try to fix them, but it never works,” she replied, turning away. “Lovely weather though, isn’t it? Real Indian summer! My mum loves this time of year—she says she made her best life decision on a warm autumn day like this, and never regretted it. Did you know—” he bubbled on, a happy stranger, “—my mum’s like that!” He flashed a thumbs-up. “I’m so grateful to her.” “And your dad?” Sue asked before thinking. “Mum never told me about him, and I don’t ask. She doesn’t like talking about him.” Then, with a bright smile: “I just came from an interview—can you believe, they chose me from ten candidates! The only one they picked, even though I’ve hardly got any experience. Feels almost unreal… “It was Mum that gave me confidence. “I already know what I’ll do with my first pay packet—send Mum to the seaside. She’s never seen the sea. Have you?” “No,” Sue replied, curiously watching the cheerful, talkative chap, her eyes catching his burgundy tie. “A present from my mum,” he explained, smoothing the tie with pride. “Sorry if I’m going on—I just had to share my happiness, and you looked so sad… I thought maybe you needed someone to talk to. Am I bothering you?” Sue shook her head silently. Strangely, the stranger didn’t annoy her—he’d managed to halt her cycle of grim thoughts. His devotion to his mother was something she deeply respected. “What loyalty!” she thought, watching him intently. “His mum is so lucky… Wish I could have a son like him someday…” “Well, I’d better go. Mum’s waiting and she’ll worry. But don’t rush—” “What was that?” she asked. “I meant your watch,” he smiled. “Oh.” She smiled back. A moment later, he’d vanished, and Sue, finally releasing her grip on the crumpled hospital note, tore it into tiny pieces. She sat for a long while, breathing in the autumn air, feeling unexpectedly warm and light. She was not alone. Some women raise wonderful sons on their own. Pity she hadn’t asked his name… but perhaps that didn’t matter. The choice was made. *** Twenty-three years later… “Mum, I’m running late!” Stas called from the mirror. Mum was carefully tying his new burgundy tie—for his own big job interview. “You could just go without, you know.” “It’s for confidence, Mum! Trust me, everything’ll be fine. They’ll take me for sure… That’s it!” Susan finished the tie and stepped back to admire her son. “I’m nervous, what if…” “It’s your job, I can feel it. Just answer clearly, remember to smile. You look fantastic.” “Thanks, Mum.” Stas kissed her cheek and hurried out. Susan watched her only son enthusiastically stride towards the bus stop. Suddenly, she froze, jolted as if by electricity… She’d seen this all before. That lad in the park, more than twenty years ago… Her Stas, suited up, looked just like him. How could she have forgotten that day for so long? Now it all came alive in her memory. Was it fate, she wondered, letting her see with her own eyes whom she almost let go—(such a horrible word)—giving her the chance to make the right choice, guiding her down the right path? Why hadn’t she asked his name, since they were about the same age, or his mother’s name? But now, maybe that didn’t matter. Everything turned out wonderfully. After lunch, Stas came home with an armful of burgundy chrysanthemums—the shade of his tie—and told Susan he’d got the job. He promised they’d finally go to the seaside together. She’d never seen the sea, after all. Now it was time for him to look after the mum he loved more than anything. He would move mountains, turn rivers for her—such was Susan’s son. Whatever life had thrown at them, Susan had never, ever regretted having him. She had made the right choice. And so it was meant to be.

When the Key Turned in the Door, His Heart Nearly Leapt From His Chest and His Soul Rushed to Meet Her… 🤔 — How many more mistakes can you make?! Your errors are just ridiculous! Look at this! — Alison Edwards jabbed her long, manicured nail at the monthly report, almost snapping her polished perfection. — Go! Do it again! And if you can’t manage, then just quit already! — Her boss, always impeccably groomed and attractive, looked downright demonic when angry. Lisa left in silence. There was just over an hour left in the working day—she had to hurry, though she’d already been docked her bonus. It felt like one endless streak of bad luck—complete with extra hurdles. A week ago, she’d called her mother, only to be met with a fresh bout of criticism. Her mum launched into accusations and hung up in a rage, leaving Lisa more upset than usual and now too afraid to call at all. Two days ago she’d lost her bank card, had to cancel it and order a new one. And yesterday, her only companion—Phoebe, her year-old calico cat—had fallen from the third-floor balcony. Lisa watched as the cat eventually stood, shook herself off, and walked away. But when Lisa got outside, Phoebe was nowhere to be found, having vanished ever since. Barely submitting her cursed report, Lisa headed home, not even bothering with the shops. She collapsed on the sofa and sobbed bitterly. Half an hour later, her tears dried, but she felt no better. Gloomy, poisonous thoughts slithered in: Who am I living for? My mother doesn’t want me, I have no family, and even my cat has left me. Suddenly, the idea of ending it all seemed almost comforting. “At least they’ll break their nails and weep someday, but by then it’ll be too late,” she thought darkly, feeling relieved that tomorrow she wouldn’t need to go to work, call her mother, or apologise for things she hadn’t done. A reckless sense of glee took over. She was just a small step away from making a truly terrible decision when the phone rang—a number she didn’t recognise. She nearly ignored it, but thought “What if this is the last human voice I’ll ever hear?” — Hello?… Nobody answered. — If you’re just going to call and not speak, why bother? — Her frustration grew. — Hello… — a low male voice finally came through. — Please, don’t hang up. — Who are you? What do you want? — Lisa was anxious to get on with her “important” plans. — I just wanted to hear another human’s voice… I haven’t spoken to anyone in a week. I thought, if nobody answered me tonight, that would be it… — he sighed shakily. — Can’t you go out to the park or something? That’s all it takes! — Lisa perched on her wide windowsill. — I can’t. I live on the fifth floor. My wife left a week ago… — His voice fell. — No wonder! What kind of man are you?! — Lisa said, not understanding his situation. — I’m in a wheelchair. Less than a year now. Five flights—up and down—is impossible without a lift. — You don’t have legs?! — Lisa asked, horrified, before she could stop herself. — Not quite. Spinal injury. I can’t walk. — She thought she heard a sigh and a smile in his words. They talked for half an hour more. Lisa took down his address. An hour later, she was at his door with two massive carrier bags. Answering was a young, handsome man in a wheelchair. — I’m Lisa! — It only dawned on her now that she didn’t even know his name. — Arthur! — His radiant smile lit up his face as if he’d been waiting his whole life for her. Turns out, they lived not far from one another. Lisa visited every day. Her own hardships paled in comparison to his situation—troubles that had almost cost her the will to live. She grew stronger, more stubborn, more caring. As if by magic, Phoebe reappeared: just waiting for Lisa on her doormat. When her boss Alison tried to start in on her again, Lisa cut her short: — Ms Edwards, you have no right to yell at me or humiliate me. I can’t work under this kind of pressure—I’ll call in sick from this migraine, and good luck finding a replacement! The girls in the office burst out laughing; her boss turned on her heel and left. A call finally came from her mother: — Hello, daughter! Why haven’t you called? How could you be so heartless, so ungrateful? Elizabeth, are you listening?! — her mother shrieked. — Hello, Mum. I don’t want to talk with you in that tone anymore, — Lisa replied evenly. — How dare you?! I’ll hang up! — Go ahead… — she said indifferently. A few days later, her mother rang again. No apology—never her style—but at least the conversation stayed civil. A month later, Lisa moved in with Arthur, renting out her own flat. Friendship turned into trust, gratitude, tenderness—maybe even love. With rent money, Lisa hired a masseuse and booked weekly swimming sessions for Arthur. Slowly, feeling began to return; he could wiggle his toes. Lisa’s mother fell ill, and Lisa took two days off work to care for her. Arthur waited anxiously. Like a loyal hound, he lay on the sofa for days, counting the minutes. It was February and a blizzard raged outside. He knew when Lisa’s bus should arrive, calculated how long it would take her to get home—but the minutes dragged on, and Lisa still wasn’t there. Arthur wheeled himself to the window, but the snowstorm swallowed up everything. Her phone had been off for hours. One hour passed… Two… Three… When the key finally turned in the lock, his heart nearly burst from his chest and his soul leapt to greet her. — Arthur, the bus skidded off the road; we had to wait for the tow service… My phone died straight away, — she called, pulling off her coat. — Arthur! She ran into the living room and stopped dead— He was standing, just two steps from his wheelchair, beaming.

I’m 47 Years Old. For 15 Years, I Worked as a Personal Chauffeur for a Senior Executive at a Leading UK Tech Firm. He Always Treated Me Well—Great Pay, Bonuses, Full Benefits, Even Extra Perks. I Drove Him Everywhere: Business Meetings, Airport Runs, Formal Dinners, and Family Events. My Family Lived Comfortably; I Gave My Three Children a Good Education and Bought a Modest Home on a Mortgage. Last Tuesday, I Was Driving Him to an Important Meeting at a London Hotel. As Always, Dressed Smartly, Car Immaculate, Arrived Promptly. He Told Me This Meeting Was Crucial, With International Guests, and Asked Me to Wait in the Car. I Agreed, No Problem. The Meeting Began in the Morning. I Waited in the Car. Noon Came and Went, Then the Afternoon, Still No Sign. I Texted to Check In—He Said It Was Going Well, to Give Him Another Hour. By Evening, I Was Hungry But Didn’t Move—Didn’t Want to Miss Him. Finally, Around 8:30pm, He Came Out With His Guests, All Laughing. I Opened the Car Door for Them. He Asked Me to Take Them to Dinner. On the Drive, They Spoke English. Over the Years, I’d Studied the Language in My Evenings, Though I’d Never Mentioned It at Work. I Understood Everything. One Guest Remarked How Dedicated I Was for Waiting All Day. My Boss Laughed and Said, “That’s What I Pay Him For—He’s Just a Driver, He Has Nothing Better to Do.” They All Laughed. A Lump Formed in My Throat, But I Said Nothing and Kept Driving. During Dinner, He Told Me to Grab Something to Eat and Return in Two Hours. Alone, His Words Echoed in My Mind: “Just a Driver.” Fifteen Years of Loyalty, Early Mornings, Hours Waiting—Was That Really All I Was to Him? Next Day, I Arrived as Usual. As He Got in, I Left My Resignation Letter on the Seat Beside Him. He Looked Puzzled and Asked What It Was. I Told Him I Was Resigning—Respectfully but Firmly. He Was Stunned, Offered Me More Money, Asked If Something Happened. I Said It Wasn’t About Money, But Time for a Change. He Pressed for the Real Reason. At a Red Light, I Looked at Him and Said, “Last Night, You Called Me ‘Just a Driver’ With Nothing Better to Do. Maybe That’s True for You, But I Deserve to Work for Someone Who Respects Me.” He Turned Pale, Tried to Explain He Didn’t Mean It, It Was a Thoughtless Remark. I Told Him I Understood, But After 15 Years, It Was Clear Enough. I Deserved to Be Valued. At the Office, He Asked Me to Reconsider and Offered a Significant Raise. I Refused, Promised to Work My Notice, Then Leave. My Last Day Was Difficult. He Tried Harder With Even Better Offers, But My Mind Was Made Up. Now, I’m in a New Job—Not as a Driver, But as a Coordinator, With Higher Pay, My Own Office, Set Hours. My New Boss Said He Values Loyalty and Hard Work. I Didn’t Hesitate to Accept. Later, I Got a Message From My Old Boss—He Said He Was Wrong, I Was More Than a Driver, I Was Someone He Relied On, and Asked for Forgiveness. I Haven’t Replied Yet. Now, I Feel Valued in My New Job, but Sometimes Wonder—Did I Do the Right Thing? Should I Have Given Him a Second Chance? Sometimes, Five Seconds and a Careless Sentence Can Undo 15 Years of Trust. What Do You Think—Did I Do the Right Thing, or Was I Too Harsh?